Page 166 of Sweet Venom

“Alright, boy. Let’s get this shit done,” he said, his grin widening again as he moved toward the tattoo station.

Poe’s father didn’t speak another word, just watched as I took my seat, his face unreadable. I didn’t care. I was already focused on what I needed to do. My life’s mission.

I was going to make sure my little fox had the life she deserved— a life filled with magic and unconditional love— and I would let nothing, no one, stand in my way.

Not even her hero.

The buzzing of the needle started, and a few minutes later when it was done…it was official. I had the woman who owned my soul inked in my heart and now in my skin all the while two of the men she loves most in the world watch. When Enzofinished, I got up, tried to pay which he refused and then with one last look at Valentino, I turned and walked out, Poe’s book clutched in my hand and another tattoo. The ink with the most meaning.

I stepped into the cold night and opened the book. As my eyes fell on the first page, my heart stopped— the title hit me like a punch to the chest.

Sweet Venom by Poe Vaeda

Fuck, baby.

I stood there in the cold, reading the first chapter.

She was young, and she felt rejected by me.

And still, she wrote the most beautiful story. A story of a boy with hate in his heart, and the sweet, shy girl who stole it… one kind word, one precious smile at a time.

She wrote our story.

The one she hoped for.

Fuck, I love her.

I’m obsessed with her.

I can’t even breathe without her.

Written in all my scars—she was always there.

Even when I didn’t deserve it.

She loved me.

And now? I only breathe for her.

Chapter

Forty-Three

DEVIL’S HEART

Poe

“You are the sin I’ll never repent for.” — A

Ishould’ve known tonight wasn’t going to be just another ordinary evening.

It started when Azariel got strangely serious, asking me to wear a blue dress—the exact shade of my hair. Not just any dress, either. A skintight, sleeveless one that hugged my body in all the right places, showing off every curve. He also insisted I wear my hair down in loose curls. I hadn’t styled it that way in years, but I did it—because, in some strange way, it made him happy.

There was something in his eyes that looked like seriousness, yes, but also excitement. It was endearing, and so I gave in, asking no questions. I’d learned quickly that questions didn’t get me far with the grump.

The night was cold, so I threw on a jean jacket. Around my neck, I wore the necklace he’d given me, the one with his letter hanging close to my skin. I looked like I belonged to him.

And maybe I did.

---